**Chapter 1**
“Why am I in the imperial palace…?”
I had recently quit my job at a newspaper in the capital and returned to my hometown, excitedly spending my days searching for a building to open a bakery.
But exactly one week after settling back in, the Imperial Guard showed up at my doorstep.
I had no idea why. *Was it because I called the Crown Prince bald in that one story?* Could that be considered a crime against the royal family? But he was just a character in a novel! Trembling with anxiety, I boarded the luxurious carriage they brought and was now here—in the imperial palace.
Currently, I sat in a lavish drawing room, still as an ornament on the sofa beneath an opulent chandelier. My eyes wandered from the luscious fruits on the table, to the delicate glass sculptures on the mantel, and the tapestries and portraits adorning the walls.
*This is even more extravagant than I imagined. I should use this in my next story. No—what am I saying? I’ve retired. I’m never writing another novel again.*
I was staring at a porcelain vase by the door—large enough to fit a person—and wondering if it was actually meant to hold one, when the double doors suddenly burst open.
“Clear my afternoon schedule. Deliver the message to Count Wellsright immediately.”
“Yes, Your Highness. And also—”
*H-His Highness?!*
A man entered, clad in a pristine white uniform and a crimson cloak. I hoped I was wrong, but no—it was unmistakably the Crown Prince. In a panic, I shot to my feet and gave him a hurried, awkward bow.
Golden embroidery glinted from every part of his uniform, catching the sunlight and dazzling my eyes. I kept my gaze fixed on his chest, afraid to look any higher. All he would see was the top of my head.
“You’re the writer from *SNL*?”
“Y-Yes, Your Highness…”
“Let me see your face.”
“…Yes.”
I cautiously raised my eyes to meet his.
My first impression? *Blinding.*
It wasn’t just his golden hair. His sharply defined features were sculpted to perfection, as if carved by a master artisan. The very embodiment of royal nobility stood before me.
*How is someone like this even real?!*
His jewel-like blue eyes scanned me thoroughly. One corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile—not a pleasant one—but even knowing that, I couldn’t look away.
To be honest, he looked far better than how I had ever imagined him while writing. Then again, the only glimpse I’d ever had of him in real life was the back of his head as his procession passed by.
I felt genuinely sorry. Because of one annoying reader, I’d dragged this beautiful man’s image through the mud. My voice dwindled to a whisper from guilt.
Even before he said anything, I blurted out, “I’m sorry.”
He accepted the apology as though it were expected. “As you should be.”
Looking back, yes—making the Crown Prince bald and abruptly ending the story *was* going too far.
I bowed my head, hands politely folded, and perhaps sensing my remorse, Prince Jereon’s expression softened as he took a seat opposite me, the smile on his face deepening.
“Sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Even after carefully sitting, I kept my gaze fixed on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him cross his legs—his limbs so long, the motion seemed unusually slow.
His gloved hands rested regally on the armrest. Even the white gloves bore the golden emblem of the imperial sun, which I found myself admiring—until he flipped his hand and beckoned with a finger.
*Does he want me to stand?*
I jumped up reflexively, only to be met with a startled voice.
“I didn’t say you could leave. Why are you standing?”
“You beckoned, so I thought…”
“That gesture means ‘speak.’ You didn’t know? Sit back down.”
Like a well-trained hunting dog, I obeyed instantly, plopping down and once again staring at the intricate carpet pattern beneath my feet.
I was nervous. My mind had gone completely blank—I didn’t know what to say.
“…I suppose I’ll go first, then.”
Perhaps he grew tired of the silence. Prince Jereon tapped the armrest with his fingers and continued.
“I heard you wrote about me.”
“…Yes.”
Strictly speaking, the character wasn’t *exactly* based on him, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to explain that.
“I saw that it concluded last week.”
“Yes, it did, but…”
“You made me bald?”
“T-That wasn’t meant to insult Your Highness’s dignity—it just… happened.”
“And the reason?”
“Um… Can I speak freely? It might sound a bit rude.”
“Go ahead. I prefer unfiltered honesty.”
I let out a long breath and finally said,
“It was because of a reader. A *very* problematic one. The kind of person you’d call a nightmare fan.”
“Nightmare… fan?”
“Yes. They’ve been sending letters in pale blue envelopes for about two years now—criticizing every little thing, ordering how the story should go. They don’t know the first thing about the imperial family but act like experts and even tried to pressure our paper. They’re ignorant but filthy rich and kept sending in donations, which gave them an excuse to hound me constantly.”
Prince Jereon rested his head in his hand, one gloved fingertip pressing against his temple. His face turned serious as he listened intently.
—
The *Farmer’s Weekly*—a newspaper beloved by commoners.
It reported everything from local news and updates on imperial laws, to crop prices, flour mill rental costs by region, and schedules for various city markets.
Published once a week, it was sold on village noticeboards, bookstores, and fertilizer stands. Since many commoners couldn’t read, circulation was modest, but thanks to *Farmer’s Weekly*, the struggling *Barley Press* could keep its doors open.
Editor-in-chief Edward always lamented the small leftover spaces in each edition after packing in the main content.
They used to fill those gaps with local wedding announcements, but even those had dried up lately.
“Ugh, what a waste. We’ve been printing like this for over three months now…”
Edward flipped open the paper with a sigh and began sharpening a pencil over the empty space. Flecks of graphite scattered across the page.
“Chief!”
The office door slammed open, sending a gust of wind swirling into the tiny room.
It dusted Edward’s crisp white shirt with graphite and scattered several papers across the floor.
“Jake! How many times do I have to tell you—open the door slowly!”
Edward shouted at the young reporter, who ignored the scolding with sparkling eyes.
“Look at this!”
He shoved a piece of paper in front of Edward’s face. Annoyed, Edward sat down and glanced away.
“What is it?”
When Edward didn’t reach for it, Jake pulled the paper back, grinning like he’d struck gold.
“I found something to fill that empty space!”
“What kind of info?”
“Not info. A story. A serialized novel!”
“A *what*?”
“Yep!”
“If you’re going to talk nonsense, get out.”
In a time when circulation was declining, why on earth would they run fiction? Edward didn’t believe commoners, scrambling just to survive, had the luxury of indulging in stories.
“Just read it. It’s really good!”
Jake wouldn’t stop flapping the pages in front of him, so Edward reluctantly took the bundle.
“*The Crown Prince’s First Love*?” he read aloud, unimpressed. “Sounds like fluff.”
“Exactly! It *smells* like a bestseller doesn’t it?”
Edward frowned, rubbing his stubbled chin before starting to read. His expression soured almost instantly.
But when he flipped to the second page, his brow softened just a bit.
Jake caught the change and knew he had him hooked.
By the third page, Edward’s frown had vanished completely. He pressed his lips together in concentration.
*Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.*
For a while, the only sound was the turning of pages. After reading ten straight, Edward finally looked up at Jake.
“So?” Jake asked eagerly. “What do you think?”
“…I want to know what happens next.”
“Right?! People will buy the paper just to read it!”
“But is this all the author wrote?”
“Yes. She hasn’t finished it yet.”
Edward eyed the blank space in the paper. Maybe it was worth trying.
“Alright. We’ll run it for a month. If it flops, we drop it. Contact the writer and get her approval.”
“No worries—I already brought her.”
“…You what?”
Jake flung the door open again and called out, “Come in!”
Curious who the author could be, Edward craned his neck to look.
And in walked none other than Shanael, the clerk from the bakery downstairs.
“She wrote this?”
“Yes! I spotted her reading it behind the counter when I went to buy lunch.”
Edward stood up and approached her with the manuscript.
“Shanael, how about publishing your story in our paper? Can you continue the story?”
Shanael tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and nodded.
“I can… but I only get time after bakery hours. I probably won’t have the next part until next month.”
“That won’t work. At this pace, we’ll run out of material in a month. How long does one chapter take?”
“I have about two hours of free time a day, so… around two weeks per chapter.”
She was a slow writer.
Edward thought for a moment, then made an offer.
“Two weeks per chapter is too long. We’d have to go on hiatus. So let’s do this—if the response is good after a month, you go full-time. I’ll pay you more than the bakery does.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Shanael had never dreamed of publishing, let alone becoming an official writer. Overwhelmed with joy, she practically beamed.
And so, *The Crown Prince’s First Love* debuted in the *Farmer’s Weekly*. Within a month, it became a hit—and true to his word, Edward hired Shanael as a full-time staff writer.
